You are my instrument.
Words, like flickering black lightning, came out of that mist, threatening to sear his soul.
Words lie. Blood doesn't.
He was less than a mile from the Gate.
"Lucivar," he whispered. But he didn't have the strength to feel angry at his brother's betrayal.
You are my instrument.
"No." He tried to stand up, but he couldn't do it. Still, something in him required defiance. "No. I am not your instrument. I ... am ... Daemon . . . Sadi."
He closed his eyes, and the gray mist engulfed him.
With a groan, Daemon rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes. Even that was almost too much effort. At first, he wondered if he had gone blind. Then he began to make out dim shapes in the darkness.
Night. It was night.
Breathing slowly, he began to assess the physical damage.
He felt as dry as touchwood, as inflexible as stone. His muscles burned. His belly ached from hunger, and the craving for water was fierce. The fever had broken at some point, but . . .
Something was wrong.
Words lie. Blood doesn't.
The words Lucivar had spoken swam round and round, growing larger, growing solid. They crashed against his mind, fragmenting it further.
Daemon screamed.
You are my instrument.
As Saetan's words thundered inside him, there was more pain—and there was fear. Fear that the mist filling his mind might part and show him something terrible.
Daemon.
Holding on fiercely to the memory of Jaenelle saying his name like a soft, sighing caress, Daemon got to his feet. As long as he could remember that, he could hold the other voices at bay.
His legs felt too heavy, but he managed to leave the house and follow the remnants of the drive that would take him to the Hall. Even though every movement was a fiery ache, by the time he reached the Hall, he was almost moving with his usual gliding stride.
But there was still something very wrong. It was hard to hold on to the Warlord Prince called Daemon Sadi, hard to hold on to his sense of self. But he had to hold on for a little while longer. He had to.
Gathering the last of his strength and will, Daemon cautiously approached the small building that held the Dark Altar.
Hekatah prowled the small building that stood in the shadow of the ruins of SaDiablo Hall. She shook her fists in the air, frustrated beyond endurance by the past three days. Even so, every time she circled the Altar, she glanced at the wall behind it, fearful it would turn to mist and Saetan would step through the Gate to challenge her.
But the High Lord was too preoccupied with his own concerns lately to pay attention to her.
Her main problem now was Daemon Sadi.
After drinking the brew she'd made, he could not have walked away from that Dark Altar, despite what those idiot guards swore. But if he was actually making his way to this Gate ... By now the second part of her brew, the part that would make his mind receptive to her carefully rehearsed words, would be at its peak. She had planned to whisper all her poisoned words while she nursed him through the fever and the pain so that, when the fever broke, those words would solidify into a terrible truth he wouldn't be able to escape. Then all that strength, all that rage would become a dagger aimed right at Saetan's heart.
All her carefully made plans were being ruined because . . .
Hekatah jerked to a stop.
There was a silence within the night's silence.
She glanced at the unlit torches on the walls and decided against lighting them. There was enough moonlight to see by.
Not wanting to waste her strength on a sight shield, Hekatah slipped into a shadowy corner. Once he entered the Altar room, she would be behind him and could startle him with her presence.
She waited. Just when she was sure she'd been mistaken, he was there, without warning, standing just outside the wrought-iron gate, staring at the Altar. But he didn't enter the room.
Frowning, Hekatah turned her head slightly to look at the Altar. It was just as it should be. The candelabra was tarnished, and the wax from the black candles she'd burned so carefully so they wouldn't look new hung like stalactites from the silver arms.
Fearing that he might actually leave, Hekatah stepped up to the wrought-iron gate. "I've been waiting for you, Prince."
"Have you?" His voice sounded rusty, exhausted.
Perfect.
"Are you the one I should thank for the demons at the other Altars?" he asked.
How could he know she was a demon? Did he know who she was? Suddenly, she didn't feel confident about dealing with this son who was too much like his father, but she shook her head sadly. "No, Prince. There's only one power in Hell that commands demons. I'm here because I had a young friend who was very special to me. A friend, I think, we had in common. That's why I've been waiting for you."
Hell's fire! Couldn't there be some expression in his eyes to tell her if she was getting through to him?
"Young is a relative term, don't you think?"
He was playing with her! Hekatah gritted her teeth. "A child, Prince. A special child." She forced a pleading note into her voice. "I've waited here at great risk. If the High
Lord finds out I've tried to tell her friends ..." She glanced at the wall behind the Altar.
Still no reaction from the man on the other side of the gate.
"She walks among the cildru dyathe," Hekatah said.
A long silence. "That isn't possible," he finally said. His voice was flat, totally without emotion.
"It's true." Was she wrong about him? Was he only trying to escape Dorothea? No. He had cared for the girl. She sighed. "The High Lord is a jealous man, Prince. He doesn't share what he claims for himself—especially if what he claims is a female body. When he discovered the girl's affection for another male, he did nothing to prevent her from being raped. And he could have, Prince. He could have. The girl managed to escape afterward. In time, and with help, she would have healed. But the High Lord didn't want her to heal, so, under the pretense of helping her, he used another male to finish what was begun. It destroyed her completely. Her body died, and her mind was torn apart. Now she's a dead, blank-eyed pet he plays with."
Hekatah looked up and wanted to scream with frustration. Had he heard any of it? "He should pay for what he's done," she said shrilly. "If you've courage enough to face him, I can open the Gate for you. Someone who remembers what she could have been should demand payment for what he did."
He looked at her for a long time. Then he turned and walked away.
Swearing, Hekatah began to pace. Why did he say nothing? It was a plausible story. Oh, she knew he'd been accused of the rape, but she also knew it wasn't true. And she wasn't completely convinced that he had been at Cassandra's Altar that night. All the males who'd sworn they had seen him had come from Briarwood. They could have said that to keep the Chaillot Queens from looking too closely at them. Surely—
A scream shattered the night.
Hekatah jumped, shaken by the awful sound. Bestial, animal, human. None and all. Whatever could make a sound like that . . .
Hekatah quickly lit the black candles and waited impatiently for the wall to change to mist. Just before stepping through the Gate, she realized there was no one here to snuff out the candles and close the entrance to the other Realms. If that thing . . .
Hekatah raised her hand and Red-locked the wrought-iron gate.
Another scream tore the night.
Hekatah bolted through the Gate. She might be a demon, but she didn't want whatever that was to follow her into the Dark Realm.
Words swam round and round, slicing his mind, slicing his soul.
The gray mist parted, showing him a Dark Altar.
Blood. So much blood. . . . he used another male . . .
The world shattered.
You are my instrument.
His mind shattered. . . . destroyed her completely.
/> Screaming in agony, he fled through the mist, through a landscape washed in blood and filled with shattered crystal chalices.
Words lie. Blood doesn't.
He screamed again and tumbled into the shattered inner landscape landens called madness and the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom.
PART 2
chapter three
1 / Kaeleer
Karla, a fifteen-year-old Glacian Queen, jabbed her cousin Morton in the ribs. "Who's that?"
Morton glanced in the direction of Karla's slightly lifted chin, then went back to watching the young Warlords gathering at one end of the banquet hall. "That's Uncle Hobart's new mistress."
Karla studied the young witch through narrowed, ice-blue eyes. "She doesn't look much older than me."
"She isn't," Morton said grimly.
Karla linked arms with her cousin, finding comfort in his nearness.
Glacian society had started to change after the "accident" that had killed her parents and Morton's six years ago. A group of aristo males had immediately formed a male council "for the good of the Territory"—a council led by Hobart, a Yellow-Jeweled Warlord who was a distant relation of her father's.
Every Province Queen, after declining to become a figurehead for the council, had also refused to acknowledge the Queen of a small village that the council finally had chosen to rule the Territory. Their refusal had fractured Glacia, but it had also prevented the male council from becoming too powerful or too effective in carrying out their "adjustments" to Glacian society.
Even so, after six years there was an uneasy feel in the air, a sense of wrongness.
Karla didn't have many friends. She was a sharp-tongued, sharp-tempered Queen whose Birthright Jewel was the Sapphire. She was also a natural Black Widow and a Healer. But, since Lord Hobart was now the head of the family, she spent much of her social time with the daughters of other members of the male council—and what those girls were saying was obscene: respectable witches defer to wiser, more knowledgeable males; Blood males shouldn't have to serve or yield to Queens because they're the stronger gender; the only reason Queens and Black Widows want the power to control males is because they're sexually and emotionally incapable of being real women.
Obscene. And terrifying.
When she was younger, she had wondered why the Province Queens and the Black Widows had settled for a stalemate instead of fighting.
Glacia is locked in a cold, dark winter, the Black Widows had told her. We must do what we can to remain strong until the spring returns.
But would they be able to hold out for five more years until she came of age? Would she! Her mother's and her aunt's deaths had not been an accident. Someone had eliminated Glacia's strongest Queen and strongest Black Widow, leaving the Territory vulnerable to ... what?
Jaenelle could have told her, but Jaenelle . . .
Karla clamped down on the bitter anger that had been simmering too close to the surface lately. Forcing her attention away from memories, she studied Hobart's mistress, then jabbed Morton in the ribs again.
"Stop that," he snapped.
Karla ignored him. "Why is she wearing a fur coat indoors?"
"It was Uncle Hobart's consummation prize."
She fingered her short, spiky, white-blond hair. "I've never seen fur like that. It's not white bear."
"I think it's Arcerian cat."
"Arcerian cat?" That couldn't be right. Most Glacians wouldn't hunt in Arceria because the cats were big, fierce predators, and the odds of a hunter not becoming the prey were less than fifty-fifty. Besides, there was something wrong with that fur. She could feel it even at this distance. "I'm going to pay my respects."
"Karla." There was no mistaking the warning in Morton's voice.
"Kiss kiss." She gave him a wicked smile and an affectionate squeeze before making her way to the group of women admiring the coat.
It was easy to slip in among them. Some of the women noticed her, but most were intent on the girl's—Karla couldn't bring herself to call her a Sister—hushed gossip.
"—hunters from a faraway place," the girl said.
"I've got a collar made from Arcerian fur, but it's not as luxurious as this," one of the women said enviously.
"These hunters have found a new way of harvesting the fur. Hobie told me after we'd—" She giggled.
"How?"
"It's a secret."
Coaxing murmurs.
Mesmerized by the fur, Karla touched it at the same moment the girl giggled again, and said, "They skin the cat alive."
She jerked her hand away, shocked numb. Alive.
And some of the power of the one who had lived in that fur was still there. That's what made it so luxurious.
A witch. One of the Blood Jaenelle had called kindred.
Karla swayed. They had butchered a witch.
She shoved her way out of the group of women and stumbled toward the door. A moment later, Morton was beside her, one arm around her waist. "Outside," she gasped. "I think I'm going to be sick."
As soon as they were outside, she gulped the sharp winter air and started to cry.
"Karla," Morton murmured, holding her close.
"She was a witch," Karla sobbed. "She was a witch and they skinned her alive so that little bitch could—"
She felt a shudder go through Morton. Then his arms tightened, as if he could protect her. And he would try to protect her, which is why she couldn't tell him about the danger she sensed every time Uncle Hobart looked at her. At sixteen, Morton had just begun his formal court training.
He was the only real family she had left—and the only friend she had left.
The bitter anger boiled over without warning.
"It's been two years!" She pushed at Morton until he released her. "She's been in Kaeleer for two years, and she hasn't come to visit once!" She began pacing furiously.
"People change, Karla," Morton said cautiously. "Friends don't always remain friends."
"Not Jaenelle. Not with me. That malevolent bastard at SaDiablo Hall is keeping her chained somehow. I know it, Morton." She thumped her chest hard enough to make Morton wince. "In here, I know it."
"The Dark Council appointed him her legal guardian—"
Karla turned on him. "Don't talk to me about guardians, Lord Morton," she hissed. "I know all about 'guardians.' "
"Karla," Morton said weakly.
" 'Karla,' " she mimicked bitterly. "It's always 'Karla.' Karla's the one who's out of control. Karla's the one who's becoming emotionally unstable because of her apprenticeship in the Hourglass coven. Karla's the one who's become too excitable, too hostile, too intractable. Karla's the one who's cast aside all those delightful simpering manners that males find appealing."
"Males don't find that—"
"And Karla's the one who will gut the next son of a whoring bitch who tries to shove his hand or anything else between her legs!"
"What?"
Karla turned her back to Morton. Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. She hadn't meant to say that.
"Is that why you cut your hair like that after Uncle Hobart insisted that you come back to the family estate to live? Is that why you burned all your dresses and started wearing my old clothes?" Morton grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. "Is it?"
Tears filled Karla's eyes. "A broken witch is a complacent witch," she said softly. "Isn't that true, Morton?"
Morton shook his head. "You wear Birthright Sapphire.
There aren't any males in Glacia who wear a Jewel darker than the Green."
"A Blood male can get around a witch's strength if he waits for the right moment and has help."
Morton swore softly, viciously.
"What if that's the reason Jaenelle doesn't come to visit anymore? What if he's done to her what Uncle Hobart wants to do to me?"
Morton stepped away from her. "I'm surprised you even tolerate me being near you."
She could almost see the wounds the tr
uth had left on his heart. There was nothing she could do now about the truth, but there was something she could do about the wounds. "You're family."
"I'm male."
"You're Morton. The exception to the rule."
Morton hesitated, then opened his arms. "Want a hug?"
Stepping into his arms, Karla held him as fiercely as he held her.
"Listen," he said hoarsely. "Write a letter to the High Lord and ask him if Jaenelle could come for a visit. Ask for a return reply."
"The Old Fart will never let me send a courier to SaDiablo Hall," Karla muttered into his shoulder.
"Uncle Hobart isn't going to know." Morton took a deep breath. "I'll deliver the letter personally and wait for an answer."
Before Morton could offer his handkerchief, Karla stepped back, sniffed, and wiped her face on the shirt she'd taken from his wardrobe. She sniffed again and was done with paltry emotions.
"Karla," Morton said, eyeing her nervously. "You will write a polite letter, won't you?"
"I'll be a polite as I can be," Karla assured him.
Morton groaned.
Oh, yes. She would write to the High Lord. And, one way or another, she would get the answer she wanted.
Please. Sweet Darkness, please be my friend again. I miss you. I need you. Drawing on the strength of her Sapphire Jewels, Karla flung one word into the Darkness. *Jaenelle!*
"Karla?" Morton said, touching her arm. "The banquet is about to start. We need to put in an appearance, if only for a little while."
Karla froze, not even daring to breathe. *Jaenelle?*
Seconds passed.
"Karla?" Morton said.
Karla took a deep breath and exhaled her disappointment. She took the arm Morton offered and went back into the banquet hall.
He stayed close to her for the rest of the evening, and she was grateful for his company. But she would have traded his caring and protection in an instant if that faint but so very dark psychic touch she'd imagined had been real.
2 / Kaeleer
When Andulvar Yaslana settled in the chair in front of the blackwood desk in Saetan's public study, Saetan looked up from the letter he'd been staring at for the past half hour. "Read this," he said, handing it to Andulvar.
Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 02 - Heir to the Shadows (v1.0) Page 5